


Breathing Space

by ritazien



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:30:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2094039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ritazien/pseuds/ritazien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony came up here to breathe, but there's really no escaping Steve Rogers, and he should know that by now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing Space

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I get Steve/Tony feelings late at night and accidentally spill them onto a word document until 3am.

Tony sets the needle down and the record starts up. He sighs and rubs across his brow briefly before dropping his arm and slumping into the chair behind his desk, the price of which was entirely disproportionate to the level of comfort it's proven to provide. The music from the phonograph is in the back of his head, second to his thoughts despite its volume. His thoughts have been inescapable lately. Actually, it seems the less he drinks, the louder that voice is in his head. It's an unfortunate situation.

He gazes out the glass wall of his office, to the city lights that seem beyond him now. He doesn't feel like a part of it tonight. He hadn't felt like a part of it down at the party, the life and energy buzzing around him that he usually thrives on somewhere distant. He knows what this is, what he's feeling. The Great and Arrogant Tony Stark, in touch with his feelings. The Great and Arrogant Tony Stark, depressed on the anniversary of his company.

It's times like this that it gets to him. Everything, actually. It's times like this that everything gets to him. He stands up and moves over the wall of windows and closes his eyes, watching the lights dance against his eyelids. His parents – his mother, whose death he was technically over, but who took with her a piece of Tony he'd never been able to find. And, oh, his father. He opened his eyes and turned his back to the city. He wasn't letting his mind stray into the minefield of childhood issues that was his father.

It was Howard and Maria who had founded Stark Industries, and on nights like this, with their commemorative pictures projected onto a wall and their funeral dim in his mind, he feels like he can't escape those roots, buried deep inside him, right behind his lungs.

And obviously, it's not just his parents, or his own inescapable history that seems like a shadow in his periphery, no matter what he's doing now or what choices he makes. Considering some of his decisions, even recently, he's surprised his entire vision hasn't clouded over. He needs his wall, he needs his guard, he needs some goddamn shield to protect him from himself when this shit happens in his head. Maybe he could ask Cap for his for the night. Captain America couldn't say no, couldn't say no to Iron Man. He doesn't, actually, not in the field. Not anymore. Cap is the leader, of course, and he's the most natural, most deliberate leader Tony could have expected to have forced on him. In whatever time they've known each other, he's always been purposeful, always thought through options, and when that fails, he makes up some last-ditch, ridiculously simple plan that almost always works. Tony is the opposite. He rushes in, his mind working endlessly, automatically, on the next step. It's just his way in battle. It's his way in life, and lately, Steve has loosened the leash. He lets Tony do his thing; he leads the Avengers is his usual style, but they all know what they do best now. Steve knows what Tony does best now, how he works best. They've found some kind of truce there.

At this moment, Steve is downstairs charming the skirts off every woman at the party, with the exception of (probably) Pepper. Because she's a professional. The thought of Steve and Pepper flirting against the backdrop of his parents faces is... not okay. Pepper is a professional. His professional – she's his assistant, she wouldn't betray him like that. He considers, and no, _betray_ is not an exaggeration here. She's married, anyway.

He needs a drink.

That part about the Great Tony Stark being in touch with feelings? He grunts to himself. Maybe he's not as great as he thought.

The record player skips over a scratch and he wonders when that happened, humming along quietly. He stops with a sigh and falls against the couch that faces the glass. He can't help but look out. Something inside him skips at the sight, and he wonders when that happened. He thinks again of his friends downstairs. Friends... Avengers. The Avengers are most of his friends these days. He doubts he even knows two thirds of the guests personally, despite having slept with half of them. Okay, that was an exaggeration. The Avengers, Pepper, Happy, Rhodey, people he's slept with... Yeah, okay, his life is pretty awesome. But when he looks too closely, or when he loses grip on his own America-grade shield, he aches. He aches for something he can't bring himself to say. He can't bring himself to even think the words. But images? Images slip through, and they slip through too often.

A flash of blonde, a silver star hit with sunlight, blue eyes that light up to compete with the city landscape in front of him. The Great Tony Stark, tired of arrogance just for this moment, is somewhat completely fucked.

The elevator dings, and the doors open. Tony doesn't look up, assuming it's Pepper and hoping if he acts invisible, she'll leave.

“Stark,” says someone decidedly not Pepper Potts.

Tony still doesn't look up, a twitch in his gut making his jaw lock. He stands and turns to the man. Blonde as ever in the lamp light, blue eyes deeper in the shadows.

“Cap. What's up?” He notices the small American flag pinned to Steve's jacket and snorts. This is another moment he can't help but wish for a drink in his hand. Steve's eyes intent on him, he could take a sip, divert his eyes, casually stroll around the far side of the couch. Instead, he crosses his arms, stands his ground.

“Just checking in. I thought I saw you leave.”

“Nope, I'm actually still down there, flirting outrageously with that bartender. She's a piece, d'you notice?”

“Can't say that I did,” Steve says, voice clipped.

Tony rolls his eyes and relaxes his stance, moving to walk around the couch. The closest side to the both of them. Too close, actually, to where Steve is standing. He brushes by him slowly, taking pleasure in the tension he can sense in the captain. Making Steve Rogers uncomfortable isn't difficult, but it never fails to bring Tony some kind of pleasure. When he's finally past, and there's breathing space between them, he backs up further. There's still a lack of air.

“Better get back down there, then. Check her out for yourself. And, you know, continue working my party.”

“Tony,” Steve says, a smirk tugging at his lip, and even a smirk can't look anything but honest on him. “If I didn't know you better, that would sound jealous.”

“Okay first of all, who says you know me at all?” Tony snaps, and turns away to fiddle with a gadget on his desk. He doesn't see Steve's face. He doesn't imagine it. He feels a tug of guilt. “And me, jealous of you? That's actually a good joke, thanks for that one.” He turns back, a glance with a Trademark Tony Stark Smile.

Steve is frowning, but when his eyes meet Tony's, something hard softens, and it surprises Tony that something hard could exist there. It shouldn't surprise, but it does. It catches him off guard. Steve is still frowning, his eyes open for the reading but Tony isn't reading Steve right now. Steve is reading Tony. The smile disappears, and he grasps for his own shield, for his suit, for his ten foot wall of windows to slam between them.

“Really, you've done your duty. Get back to the party,” Tony says, polite as he can manage and still cold, and he turns away again. He can't help but turn away; he's not Icarus, he's not even going to look at the sun for too long. His hands freeze on the gadget at the thought, the thought that slipped through. _Steve Rogers is not the sun,_ he grits to himself.

What was Steve? Steve was coming over, he was moving closer. Deliberate steps, focused gaze on Tony's shoulder until it was on his face. Not his eyes, they weren't at eye contact, and they were still in breathing space. They were breathing their own air. It hardly mattered at this point, with all the arguments they'd been in, almost too close to see each other, the brainstorming sessions that brought them within an inch of each other without realising, the casual shoulder touches and impassioned post-battle hugs... Breathing space shouldn't be an issue at this point. But Tony looks up, and his breath pauses between his teeth.

“What's going on?” Steve asks, his voice crawling under Tony's skin.

Tony straightens, puts the gadget down. “Just an off night,” he says. “Don't worry about it.” He pats Steve's arm roughly as he passes. He's not sure where to go, but he figures he'll cross the room and wait for Cap to leave. He doesn't get another step before a heavy hand lands on his own arm, stopping him in his tracks. Steve's grip tightens, and Tony turns back, frustrated. They've been in this position before. He closes off that line of the thought before it can drag up too detailed a memory.

“Talk to me,” Steve says, barely neutral, the frown still in place. With the city lights back on his face, his eyes look clearer, and Tony isn't doing this.

“You don't always have to be the good guy,” he says, trying for harsh and coming out resigned. “And I don't want to talk.” He wrenches his arm away, but Steve catches it again, under the elbow this time. His thumb is pressed against the crook of Tony's arm, and Tony shakes his head, mostly to himself. He pulls away and turns so they're facing each other as he takes steps back, back toward the couch and the glass.

“Ton-” Tony rolls his eyes, looks away, and Steve sighs, frustrated. “Stark. I'm not leaving until you tell me what's wrong.”

“Do you know what would make me feel great?” Tony asks, shifting his weight as anger simmers. Steve shakes his head so slightly, shrugs an inch, looks generally open. Tony's gaze drops to his mouth, and that is the worst reflex Tony has ever had. He looks away again, and is sure he sounds assertive in saying, “You leaving.”

He turns around, crosses his arms over his chest, waits for the sound of the elevator doors. After a few moments and only the sound of footsteps, Tony almost glances back. He doesn't. He walks forward, closer to the glass, and looks out without seeing it, acknowledging the cliché that is his life right now. Captain fucking America.

He senses Steve behind him barely before he speaks. “I'm not going to leave, you're going to have to accept that.”

“Jesus, if an eccentric genius wants to leave his own party, he can. Pretty sure this is not a generational thing,” Tony exclaims, and spins on his heel. Steve is closer than anticipated.

He snorts. “You're more spoiled than eccentric.”

“You forgot the genius part.”

“You are that,” Steve sighs.

Tony gives him a look that probably mirrors his actual conflict. Cryptic comments aren't usually Rogers' style. He shakes his head, disregarding it, and fixes him a real look. A real, Trademark I'm Tony Stark (Therefore I Do What I Want) look. Steve raises his hands.

“Okay. I'll leave. But you're missed down there,” he says, backing up, his expression, his eyes heavier than his words.

“I always am,” Tony calls, and that's kind of when he realises. If there's some significant moment with these things, it's this one. He's Tony Stark, and isn't his I'm Tony Stark (Therefore I Do What I Want) look rendered useless if he doesn't, you know, Do What He Wants? The fact he's had trouble admitting what he wants is not the issue here. The issue is...

“Cap,” he calls, heart in his throat. Steve stops by the elevators. “I,” he hesitates. “You were my hero, you know.”

Steve is completely still, and when he moves it's to take a single step back into the office. “I was a hero to a lot of people.”

“You _are_ a hero to a lot of people.”

“Why are you saying this?”

“You're not what I expected,” Tony says. His hands aren't shaking. He feels like his hands should be shaking.

“I didn't expect you at all,” Steve says bluntly.

“To be fair, you had just come out of a sixty year ice-coma when we met.”

“I still don't expect you,” Steve says, serious.

Tony takes a step back, and Steve re-enters the room cautiously. He shouldn't have done this, he shouldn't have started. Rogers was almost gone, Tony was almost free to wallow in self-pity and old records. He glances at the record player. He's not sure when it stopped playing, but now that he's noticed it, the silence is painful. Or maybe it's just that Steve's attention on him is like a knifepoint.

Tony isn't saying anything – a rarity – so Steve continues, “I'm sorry if I disappointed.” He seems genuinely sorry, too, the jerk.

“You've been a challenge,” Tony says, taking casual steps forward. Steve moves further into the room as well, and then they're at their usual breathing space. “Or I've been the challenge. Either way.”

Steve laughs, and it knots in Tony's stomach. “Saving the world is worth it, though, isn't it?”

“You are too good for your own good, you know that?”

Steve frowns. “I'm only as good as my team.”

“No, you're different. You're good, all the way through. You're a better man than I am,” he mutters.

Steve clenches his fist, and for a second Tony thinks he's about to be punched. The fist relaxes after a few moments, but the rest of his body stays tense.

Steve should get back to the party.

“I should get back to the party,” he says quietly, and starts walking away. A few long strides and Tony catches up to him, catches his forearm.

“Tony,” he murmurs.

Tony pulls at his arm, fully aware he can't make Captain America do anything. Not physically, at least. “Turn around,” he demands.

He does, eyes on the floor, posture rigid. He clears his throat and meets Tony's eyes. “Tony, if I don't leave, I'm going to do something regrettable.”

“If you do, I'll regret everything,” Tony mutters. “Besides, it's not like you haven't hit me before.”

“I can't-” he stops at Tony's hand on the back of his neck, the other still on his arm. He pushes his head against Steve's, and he hears the hitched breath.

“I wasn't-”

“Shut up, Rogers.” He presses his lips against Steve's, and he's just there, he's there alone. A shuddering wave of disappointment and regret crashes over him, as Steve stays still. He starts to pull back, but Steve closes the distance, his lips hard against Tony's this time, and the rush of not being alone, of this is Steve, fills his head. His hand is on Tony's waist and he pulls him closer. Tony's muffled moan gets lost somewhere in the ardent lips on his and the shirt crumpling in his grip. He presses closer and then his mouth is his own and he can breathe, before it's back with Steve's and everything is open, an exploration. This is a part of Steve Rogers he's been too long deprived of. His hand on Steve's neck slides up into his hair and he breathes heavy against Steve's jaw.

“Do you know,” he breathes, pressing his nose into Steve's neck, “how long...”

Steve pauses, and Tony feels everywhere they're touching, and it's overwhelming. “Yes,” he groans, and presses his lips under Tony's jaw, kissing him hard until their mouths are together again, and that one word catches Tony in the best and worst places. He pulls himself away and glances around. The couch is a few too many steps away. He drags at Steve, who breathes against his neck like he's taking him in. He falls back on the couch, entirely horizontal, and Steve climbs on top of him.

He hovers over Tony, and turns his head when Tony reaches up for him. “We shouldn't,” he says, voice rougher, more... undone.

“We absolutely should,” Tony argues, dragging his hands up Steve's side, his shirt coming up with him. Steve pushes him back down, a firm hand on his chest.

“Are you just...”

“What?” Tony asks, running his fingers through that blonde hair, and god, how was he surviving on flashes? Steve breathes carefully under the contact, his hand easing up.

“Are you just being Tony Stark?”

Tony laughs. “I don't exactly know how to stop that.” He leans up, under Steve's ear, and scrapes his teeth down gently, a half-kiss.

“Tony,” Steve breathes. “Stop.” Tony groans and falls back down against the couch.

“What's wrong?”

“That bartender,” Steve begins.

_“What?”_

“And half your guests downstairs,” Steve says, annoyed. “Is that what this is? Sleeping with Captain America?”

“Oh, Christ. Cap-” Steve's jaw clenches. Tony sighs. “I'm going to tell you something. And it can never leave this room.” Steve looks at him curiously, but still clearly annoyed. “I was jealous before.”

“Wait, when I said-”

“When you said if you didn't know me better, you'd say I was jealous. I was, of everyone else you talked to tonight. Obviously.”

“That doesn't mean anything, Tony, just that you're possessive of your conquests.”

“You're not a conquest yet,” Tony grumbles, leaning up again, but Steve pushes him back down. Yeah, he saw that coming.

“And you're not a conquest at all,” he amends. “You're not just Captain America, Steve. You're the guy I've been seeing in my subconscious since New York. Well, you and several thousand Chithuari, but see, you're even up there with my PTSD.”

Steve sighs, relief imperceptible. He leans in closer and says, “I had to know, because-”

“You have the delicate sensibilities of a 1940s gentleman?”

Steve narrows his eyes and Tony smirks. He leans down further, so they're almost pressed together, and whispers into Tony's ear, “Because I only want there to be this much space between us from now on.”

Tony's hand is in his hair again, pulling him roughly into a kiss and he's pretty sure he doesn't need air ever again, as long as he has this.

 

It's six months later, in Tony's office, when Pepper walks in. Tony is stretched out on the couch, legs draped over Steve's lap. Paperwork is all over him and Steve is patiently, quietly reading his book as Tony works. Pepper comes over to gather a stack of papers behind the couch.

“Hey, Pepper,” Steve says. “Did you know Tony admitted to being jealous of everyone at his own party because I was talking to them?”

Tony drops his pen and looks up suddenly.

“I didn't,” Pepper says, amusement clear on her face.

“Steve,” he snaps.

“You said it couldn't leave this room,” Steve shrugs.

On her way out, Pepper winks at Steve, and he nods once, wearing a grin too mischievous.

“This is a conspiracy,” Tony declares.


End file.
